Friday mornings are my favourite:Sequestered under heated coverlingsRoom darkened beneath my squinched lids,The last remnants of my subconscious Rebelling against full-on awakening, Pulling me back into that last dream...What was it about? Where was I? I want to go back in!Surrendering, I allow the bright light into my bedroomWith the slit of one eye, Then the other.Ah, glorious sun, even you can't force my rise!I can lie here as long as I wish(or until my bladder screams).I can have as many cups of chai as I desire,With extra honey!Read what I will, Write, create, all in my purple jammies;The fuzzy, warm ones with little white bowsAnd juvenile polka-dots.The squirrels chitter: "Get Up!"Far-away trains sound their long alto: "Time!"It's after 8:30Even the sound of traffic is sleeping in.My Friday mornings are free, And I refuse to wash my face until noon,(She cries defiantly!)Another hour of reading, Then perhaps I'll greet the day upright.But for now, time for the second cup.